ld she retrace her steps? There was
but one way--correct the false impression. It would not be necessary to
acknowledge that she had been forced to leave her post; the essential
was that her companions should know that she had deceived them--that she
had left the bedside before her patient's death. But at the thought of
making such confession, public as it must be, everything that was left
of her wounded pride revolted. She who had been so firm, she who had
held so tenaciously to her principles, she who had posed before them as
an example of devotion and courage--she could not bring herself to that.

"No, no," she exclaimed as this alternative presented itself to her
mind. "No, I cannot. It is beyond me. I simply cannot do it."

But she could. Yes, she could do it if she would. Deep down in her mind
that little thought arose. She could if she wanted to. Hide it though
she might, cover it and bury it with what false reasoning she could
invent, the little thought would not be smothered, would not be crushed
out. Well, then, she would not. Was it not her chance; was not this
deception which others and not herself had created, her opportunity to
recover herself, to live down what had been done--what she had been
forced to do, rather? Absolute right was never to be attained; was not
life to be considered rather in the light of a compromise between good
and evil? To do what one could under the circumstances, was not that the
golden mean?

But she ought. And, quick, another little thought sprang up in the
deeper recesses of her mind and took its place beside the other. It was
right that she should be true. She ought to do the right. Argument, the
pleas of weakness, the demands of expediency, the plausibility of
compromise were all of no avail. The idea "I ought" persisted and
persisted and persisted. She could and she ought. There was no excuse
for her, and no sooner had she thrust aside the shifty mass of
sophistries under which she had striven to conceal them, no sooner had
she let in the light, than these two conceptions of Duty and Will began
suddenly to grow.

But what was she to gain? What would be the result of such a course as
her conscience demanded she should adopt? It was inevitable that she
would be misunderstood, cruelly misjudged. What action would her
confession entail? She could not say. But results did not matter; what
she was to gain or lose did not matter. Around her and before her all
was dark and vague